The making of a legend
by windofdreams
Summary: Sometimes not even the most helpful and caring people are protected from slanderers. There are whispers, eerie tales about Edgar Cloggs's past... They resonate in the Common Rooms and, ultimately, may shake up the whole castle. But what if Edgar was the one who started those legends in the first place? And why?


**Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter, obviously!

 **QLFC** , round 10 - Of ghosts and portraits. Team: Ballycastle Bats. Position: Chaser 2.

Main prompt: Edgar Cloggs (ghost)

Optional prompts: confined, tickle, "I'm still here"

 **Hogwarts Houses Challenges** : QP - It was raining, with occasional bursts of colour and lightning; DC – "Quidditch, anyone?"

Word count: 1613

A/N I know of Edgar Cloggs only what I found on the Net (which is not much), so this may be AU.

Warnings: some violence, some dark theme.

ooOOoo

 _Passed down from generation to generation, whispered in the corner by the fireplace, this is a tale of blood and mystery and has come a long way to reach us. For centuries, for as long as anyone can remember, when the nights are eerily quiet and the moon is pale and silvers the Goal posts, no living being dares come near the Quidditch pitch, for they all know that something—or someone—sneaks about in the dark out there; a shadow among shadows._

 _Some swear they saw it: a spectre, icy and silent, wandering under the moonlight. It's majestic and terrible._

 _They whisper that it all began in the Middle Age; it's a tragic tale of power and betrayal and takes place in the period that the old History books record as the darkest hours of Quidditch._

 _It was a freezing, red dawn. As red as the blood. It may seem like it was only yesterday, but it was a far more distant dawn. It was the dawn of March 1st, 1345. And it was raining, with occasional bursts of color and lightning. The raindrops stung like many silver needles. To be honest, they didn't hurt so much; they felt more like an unpleasant_ _tickle_ _._

* * *

In Edgar Cloggs' mind, the stands were filled with diehard fans, ready to celebrate the win, eager to jump on him and thank him for leading the team to the win. Ah, if only he could relive those moments! He had tried to play Quidditch again so many times, but a ghost can't touch anything, anything. Yet, to see those young players and occasionally help them was more than enough for him to feel the wind in his hair again and the crowd cheering for him.

When he truly looked around, he noticed that the pitch was becoming empty. The Gryffindor team had finished their practice and he had missed it, lost in his dreams as he was. To think Oliver Wood was so eager to know Edgar's opinion! He should have paid more attention to those guys. Oh well, there would be another time. The Gryffindors were already dismounting from their brooms, looking rather tired and sweating but satisfied.

The only thing missing now was that mousy-haired child that haunted Harry Potter. But no, he was there, as always, waving his little black box and jumping on the young seeker as soon as he had landed. Shortly thereafter, the silence was broken by his requests and pleas.

"Hey, Harry!"

How could that boy be always so enthusiastic, Edgar didn't know but wanted to discover.

"Can I have a picture, Harry?" Colin went on. "Smile, Harry, will you?"

That tenacity could take him a long way. It was the secret to success according to Edgar. The ghost mused for a brief moment that the child could be a good Quidditch player, but he immediately set that thought aside because of that black box that Colin never left. One couldn't play well while holding such an object...

"Harry, please, don't move, and smile!"

"ENOUGH IS ENOUGH, COLIN! I already told you; I'm tired and I'd appreciate it if you'd leave me alone, right?"

That sudden outburst shook everyone up, apparently except for Colin who nodded and quietly walked away. But Edgar had noticed the little boy's lower lip tremble, so he followed him without even thinking.

The child had not gotten far; soft sobs were coming from under the bleachers. The place would have been too small for anyone else, but fortunately for Edgar—and Colin—ghosts could go everywhere.

"Hey, little one."

The boy looked up, sniffing. "Hey." His voice was lifeless.

"You know who I am, right?"

A nod.

"And you know I'm famous?"

Another nod.

"And am I not worth of a picture?" Edgar doubted that those Muggle devices could catch a ghost, but it didn't matter so much as cheer the boy—Colin, he reminded himself—up.

Another nod. The little black box was still neglected, though.

The silence was quickly becoming oppressive and the ghost scratched his head uncomfortably.

"How do you call that, however?" Edgar asked.

"Camera."

 _Wow, three syllables_ , the ghost thought. Aloud, he said, "They didn't exist in my day."

"How old are you?" Colin seemed more animated now.

"Now, I can't tell you that." he replied.

"Oh, I see."

"I'm young, though. Well, younger than Hogwarts, anyway."

Colin smiled and...

 _Flash._

"Hey, what was that?" Edgar complained, rubbing his eyes.

"I took a picture, as you asked." His voice was mischievous and innocent at the same time.

"Sure, sure. Is this what you want from Potter? Just this?"

"No. I wish to know him better, spend time with him, but I don't know what to talk about and so I always end up bothering him. I'm aware of it but..." He shrugged.

"Hmmm. You're a Muggleborn, I guess."

Colin eyed him suspiciously but said nothing. He looked ready to flee, though.

"Peace! I mean no disrespect. I'm one myself. It's just... When I was young, the best way to spend time with people we cared about was to gather around and tell scary stories about ghosts and such." He giggled. "I would have never thought I would become one. I didn't even know I was a wizard at the time."

The child grew excited. "Yes! My grandmother used to tell stories to my brother and me too! But Harry's grown in the Muggle World. I bet he already knows them all... Moreover, he only cares about Quidditch now, and I really don't understand it." His smile had faded.

"Oh, but the Magical World has its legends too. In fact, now that I think of it, there is one right about this Quidditch pitch. Few people know of it. He'll love it, I'm sure. And I'll be glad to explain everything about Quidditch later, don't worry! Now, where do I start?" He honestly didn't know what to tell for such a legend had never existed so far. _It_ _will from now on though_ , he thought. _So..._ He took a deep breath in.

* * *

 _Quidditch secret books recount the nefarious deeds of a player whose name has been scratched from every record. Yet, it's on everyone's lips._

 _It's 1345, it's Wigtown, and this is the tale of Endrin Calvol, the deceitful beater._

 _In February, a secret note informs the Wigtown Wanderers Captain that Calvol, an essential cornerstone of the team's defensive line, is on his way to negotiate the surrender with the Chudley Cannons._

 _It's the time when wars are fought on the Quidditch pitch, and betraying your team means betraying your town, so the Captain's reaction is prompt and ruthless.  
_

 _On a freezing day, a group of people apparates in front of Calvol Manor. Pulling off their capes and showing the colors of the Wanderers, they convince the House-elves to lower the drawbridge. Once inside, they quickly find the traitor and arrest him, dragging him to Hogwarts._

 _There, they break his bat and broom, chain him to a pole and barbarically kill him by aiming a Bludger towards his head._

 _It happens to be a full moon, so when the night swiftly wraps up the place of execution, Calvol's body is still visible, and it remains there for three days for everyone to see and learn from his punishment._

 _Since then, Calvol's tormented spirit wanders in the world, but once a month he comes back to the pitch where he died to look for his bat and broom which his teammates hid. The ghost of the deceitful beater seeks his lost honor and won't rest until he has found it._

 _Many centuries have passed, many generations and events have followed another since then, but people have learned to avoid the Quidditch pitch on certain nights for Calvol's cold touch still lingers out there..._

* * *

"Here," Edgar said. "This should be enough to keep the whole Gryffindor House on their toes and your Golden Boy at your feet. May your Quaffle always enter one of the three rings, little Colin."

The ghost knew he could have told some better story, but after all, he couldn't deny history. He turned his back to the pitch and moved on. The back of his skull looked like it had been hit by something hard.

* * *

In the evening, Colin had somehow managed to gather the Golden Trio and other Lions around himself and was recounting the legend of Endrin Calvol, his little face bright with happiness.

"... in front of Calvol Manor—Harry!—"

 _Flash._

"Pulling off their capes and showing the colors of the Wanderers—Harry, smile!—"

 _Flash._

Of course, some habits were hard to break, and that forced Harry to hide behind a couch to escape Colin's camera.

"Just one more, Harry! Harry? Where is Harry?"

"I'm still here, Colin," Harry said wearily, popping up.

 _Flash._

Beside him, Ron cursed. "Bloody hell, Harry. I really can't understand why we have to stay confined to this dusty corner, listening to a bloody, old tale!" Then he got up and asked, "Quidditch, anyone?"

Hermione immediately shushed him by smacking his head. "Honestly, Ronald!"

* * *

 _Now, those students have been dead for many years, but the old legend_ — _told to cheer one of them up_ — _still lingers and will never fade for as long as someone will remember it. And Hogwarts, like any other time, falls silent whenever I tell it. And I, the not-so-old ghost of E. C., I'll recount it again and again to anyone willing to listen to me._

" _The dawn was freezing and red..."_

ooOOoo


End file.
